


a hundred miles from land

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Soul Bond, i forgot phil again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:48:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gary and David are soul bonded, and it changes everything and nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hundred miles from land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redandgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/gifts).



> me: i know nothing about soul bonds or man utd maybe i should write a fic about that  
> i hand waved...a lot //faceddesks thanks to [Julija](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am) for dunking me in the metaphorical mersey when i got too real about Utd, and [ Imk ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin)for reading it thru/holding my butt
> 
> for Rachel, because you're the worst/best and i..really hope you like it ;_______________; im sorry and i #tried

 

 

 

“Look, Preston's sixty minutes away on the M6. Thirty three miles.”

David huffs, sticking his hands into his coat pockets. “Still. What if-” he hesitates, unsure how to finish the sentence.

Gary didn't need him to. “It'll be fine,” he says, bumps David's shoulder with his own. “Go on. Score some goals, pretty boy.”

David rolls his eyes and steps up, dragging his own suitcase over and shoving it on the rack. He looks like he was about to say something, and Gary quirks an eyebrow, hands wrapped around the rail, half leaning up into the train car.

David shrugs and says, “See you, Gaz. Call when you can.”

Gary steps back, looks down the platform and back at David.

“I will,” he says, and David grins.

 

-

 

Preston was only sixty minutes away on the M6, and yet that separation was still enough to mess with the both of them. Gary gets a mild headache for a while, off and on, but nothing that would affect his performance on the pitch. He chalks it up to overexertion. It gradually worsens as the weeks go on, and a reluctant visit to the physio later he ends up in the gaffer's office.

“When did it happen?” the gaffer says, face betraying nothing. Gary fights the urge to fidget.

“Academy,” he says. “We didn't mean to.”

The silence carries on for so long Gary wants to blurt something else too, but he knew from experience that protesting overmuch was never a good thing. It'll feel like making excuses.

“David's coming back next month,” the gaffer says finally, not bothering to look at Gary. Gary forces his shoulders not to sag in relief. His hand's on the door when the gaffer says, in a voice that brooked no argument, “This is going to be an advantage, understand me, Gary?”

Gary turns. “Understood.”

He gets a faint smile of approval in return, and hurries out of office, the unspoken _or else_ worsening his headache.

 

-

 

It was an advantage. They're unstoppable together on the right wing, _Gaz_ and _Becks_ and perfect passes and perfect goals. Just as well, really, with the world poised to criticize all of them for their youth. The skeptics are only there to be proven wrong, Gary thinks, because the crest is never heavy enough on his heart to weigh it down, and the crowd in Old Trafford is always loud enough to spur them on.

 

He yells Becks' name and no one hears, David not bothering to lift his head as he ran past, and Gary crosses the ball over, knowing, _knowing,_ the ball in the back of the net already a foreseen event at this point. So all that's left then is to run towards David, David smiling so wide, David's voice in his head ( _Thanks Gaz_ ). Sometimes when it happens a little too often, a little too perfectly, Ryan gives them a look that verges on suspicious, but Gary just shrugs. Paul guesses one day so Gary confirms it. It's a secret that's not a secret. It's an advantage.

 

-

 

Off the pitch it was an advantage too but not in any way that could be quantified. They spend time together enough that the bond is always there, and it just grows. It would be more worrying, Preston always a shadow in Gary's memory, but given the way they're playing with each other it's easy to give in. It would be more worrying, David occasionally making remarks about playing abroad when La Liga or Serie A matches come on the telly, but Gary shoves it to the back of his mind.

And it was always worth it, when it meant that he could look at David and know exactly what he's feeling. When David shows up at his house, wordless and exhausted and bewildered by the media attention, and rearranges all the utensils in the kitchen in pairs and by color, and touches Gary's face like it's the only asymmetric thing he could stand.

Always them against everything. Although that was not true, really, because mostly it's everything against David, or it felt something like it.

 

 

-

 

A red card and an entire country's scorn. David's pursed lips and distracted face on the bus back from the match, mind a shuttered black cloud that Gary left alone. Back in the hotel Gary waits on the bed, half paying attention to the book he brought along, half watching David sat on the carpet opposite the bathroom, looking like he was staring at nothing.

“Gary.” he looks up, an hour later. David is smiling at him, a little tentatively, no longer looking so strained.

“Alright, Becks?” David shrugs, eyes flitting down.

“What’ve you been doing?” Gary tries instead.

“Counting tiles,” David says, embarrassed. He laughs, tilts his head back against the wall. Gary watches him, all the space in between them, across the carpet and in their heads.

He swallows. “What tiles?”

“The bathroom ones,” David looks at him like, _isn’t it obvious_. “I just- it's got 200 in this one row. 200 and a half, I guess, there’s a triangle shaped one at the end near the ceiling.”

Gary gets up slowly and walks over. David doesn’t move, so Gary settles down beside him, their shoulders together.

_Becks_ , he tries. This time he gets through to David. It’s no longer a blackout of hurt-sorrow-mess, but something cloudier. David in the middle of it all. Gary says, _Becks_ , again, and David sighs.

“Gaz,” he says.

Gary wraps his arms around him, wishing he was less rigid, his shoulders less bony, wishing he could be soft enough to never hurt him.

 

 

-

 

He likes to think he knows a few things, and a handful with utmost certainty. He loves Phil and Tracey and his mum and his dad. These things list up, catalogued off in relief because of their expected quality, but there's a whole separate list that seemed to make no sense.

It's just- Manchester United. The fact that he won't ever love anything like he loved running out the tunnel at Old Trafford, blurry sound of the stands mixing with the rush of blood in his ears, the sight of that pitch alone enough to strike a sweet aching pang into his chest when he sees it, every time he sees it. Won't ever love anything like the crest over his heart, won't ever love anything like he loved this football club. _Manchester is Heaven._

And in all that, David. Inexplicably, David. As though he was something as familiar as the signs and corridors of the stadium, like a line Gary can trace blindfolded and deaf. David. _Becks._ Somewhere on that line Gary loved him, although love wasn't quite the right word for it, was it? Nothing he could ever hope to say out loud.

 

-

 

 

 

When David first thinks, _Madrid,_ Gary looks away. It's an advantage, until it isn't.

 

 

 

-

 

Gary was under no illusions that it would hurt, but he couldn't let it happen like Preston. It's been eight years since then, eight years of entwined lives and shared thoughts and David's familiar voice in his head that no one else could hear, and once David goes to Spain ( _One thousand two hundred and eighty seven miles_ ) all that will fray like a plucked thread and it will hurt them both.

The only thing for it was to slam the door shut. It would hurt less in the long run, Gary thinks, and still couldn't bring himself to do it.

“Madrid,” David says, like a sigh. Gary doesn't ask him why ( _Always wanted to play abroad, Gaz_ ), doesn't ask him when they'll break the bond ( _Soon. We have to_ ), doesn't ask him to stay ( _I can't_ ), asks instead, “Pub? Get all the lads down one last time.”

He doesn't end up drinking much anyway, although David does, bright eyed and regretful. Gary drives him back home, David quiet in the shotgun seat, texting Victoria. She's on the phone in the living room when they stumble in, David flopping down on the couch. Gary goes to get him a glass of water, Victoria mouthing, _Thanks_ during a pause in her conversation.

_Gaz_ , David says, pulling on Gary's sleeve. Victoria's turned away, hair falling over her face and a hand at her temple. Gary feels itchy with discomfort.

_Gaz_ , David says again, voice petulant. Gary turns to look at him, indulgent.

“What?”

_Love you, Gaz._

Gary's head snaps up before he could help it, and he glances at Victoria before realizing that she hadn't heard. That no one's heard. David grins at him.

“Go upstairs, Becks? You should sleep,” he says, throat dry.

David nods and drapes himself across Gary's shoulders, and they stumble up the stairs slowly. Victoria's voice filters softly up through the bannisters, while David's head nods against the hollow of Gary's throat, gold under the dim lights.

David tugs off his shoes and gets under the covers, docile as a child, blinking at the light. Gary watches him settle down and turns to click off the lights.

“Gaz,” David says, out loud this time, a whisper. Gary hesitates, the light from the hallway cutting a

a triangle on the floor. He goes back and sits on the edge of the bed, David's hand wrapping warmly around his wrist.

“What?” Gary says, voice lowered even though it was innocuous. Even though Victoria was downstairs. “Go to sleep.”

David lets go of his wrist and drags Gary's head down to lean their foreheads together, like he would in a match after scoring, except it was just the two of them in the dark. Gary swallows, shuts his eyes though it makes no difference really, breathing in air that had been in David's body a second before. Focusing on the warm plane of David's chest under his, David's hand on the back of his neck.

Then David sighs and his hand falls away. He rolls over and sprawls out. Gary drags the covers up around him. When he leaves, he shuts the door as quietly as he could.

 

-

 

They end up putting it off till David gets on the plane.

And so: Gary phones Paul when he gets home from the airport but finds out he couldn’t speak at all, not a word, just breathing into the receiver with his blood slowly running dry. Paul says, “Gaz?” three times like each time he was hoping for Gary to recover, and then he says, “I’m coming over.”

Gary puts down the phone and sits on a chair. He tries to quantify the pain, rationalize it or something, leave it checked and done with, but it keeps slipping from his grasp. He opens the door white faced, and Paul winces, brushes past him to the kitchen.

“Drink?” Paul asks, sitting down. Gary shakes his head. It felt like a migraine, small pincers along the edge of his skull, everything blacking out and shimmery then fading back in sharp, silver stars. He wanted to throw up, wondering if David was going through the same thing.

Paul doesn’t say anything, offers him a hand to hold, and Gary clings on grimly, presses so hard on Paul’s wrist he could be leaving bruises. The kitchen's silent except for the clock on the counter, ticking metallically.

Three hours later and he’s fine.

“Scholesy,” he croaks out, and Paul sighs, gets up to boil water for tea.

 

-

 

 

“Gaz?”

“How's Madrid?”

David sighs, the sound traveling down the line all crackly. Gary's holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder, slicing a pepper.

“It's warm,” David says finally. “I like it.”

Gary laughs, swears a little when it dislodges his phone and wipes his hands, holding it more securely.

“What are you doing?” David says, after the silence. Gary scoops his peppers up one handed and tosses them in the pan.

“Making dinner.”

“Pasta?”

“Yeah,” Gary says. Pasta was the extent of his culinary skills. It might even be something David had made before, but he wasn't thinking too hard about it, operating on automatic. Everything in his brain hurt a little, like a massive hangover, and the gaffer had looked at him when he'd shown up for training and frowned. Gary ran twice as hard as he normally would've out of stubbornness, even though things were a little touch and go at the end and his knees trembled alarmingly.

“Well, I got you a new set of knives, have you seen them?”

Gary looked at the knife in his hand. “Yeah, I'm using it.”

“And wooden spoons 'cos you didn't have any. In the second drawer on the left.” David pauses, like he was about to say something, so Gary waits.

“Thanks, Becks,” Gary says, when nothing else was forthcoming. David laughs.

“Going to be a bit busy next few days, Gaz, but text me.”

Gary sets the knife down, hand steady.

“I will,” he says. “Cheers, Becks.”

 

-

 

 

_Gaz,_ David says, and shoves a handful of snow at him. He's smiling stupidly wide, crooked teeth and a splatter of acne on his cheek and dirty blonde hair, but the smile lights up his whole face, and it's the smile that will last beyond the lankiness of his teenage years. Gary looks at the way it crinkled his eyes, and gets a face full of powdery snow for his troubles.

_Oi! fuck off you-_

David yells and dodges, and Gary's running after him, footsteps sinking into the ground. David's laughing, and Gary tries to hit him with his snowballs but they're not compact enough to fly through the air properly. Instead the snow rises from the ground like a reverse snowfall as they flounder around the field.

David stops and stays still, looking upwards, and Gary staggers into him, the both of them grinning. It felt like they were standing in a giant snow globe.

_Becks,_ Gary says, pulls at his tracksuit jacket, _Got to go in now, yeah? Training soon_

David nods, but he's sticking his tongue out and waiting for flakes to land on it, hair flopped over his forehead. Gary looks at him, heart cracking with affection, and looks around to see if anyone's there. No one but them and the gently settling snow, so Gary says, _Becks,_ again, and tugs him in. David laughs, hand coming around the back of his neck, and-

 

Gary wakes up, the shadows' lengths around the room telling him he'd been asleep for longer than he'd wanted to be. He sits up, elbows propped on his knees, and waits. Slow ache, like watching paint dry. Slow as the blue shade stealing in around the room, waiting for the emptiness in his head - _in his heart-_ to become something familiar.

 

 

-

 

It does. It does.

 

 

-

 

 

Except there is something else he hadn't foreseen, after years and years until-

One day Paul in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea. Gary says, _Scholesy._ idly, not even sure why he did it.

Paul turns around, eyes wide. No sound in the warm kitchen but the quiet hum of the refrigerator, and Paul looking ordinary as anything in his old grey jumper, eyebrows raised in surprise. The steam from the kettle shrouding his sleeve. The afternoon sun making a halo around his head.

_Gaz?_

 

 

_-_

 

They don't do much with it, since playing together for so long telepathy wasn't that big of a deal anymore. Not when Gary knows him like the back of his own hand. Occasionally he says things like, _those dickheads,_ in the middle of a particularly boring interview or event, and glances at Paul just to see the corner of his mouth quirk up reluctantly. They don't even have to spend anymore time together than normal and still be mostly functional.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Paul says out of the blue, one day, at the locker.

Gary drops his boot and stares at him. “What?”

Paul shrugs.

“Honestly,” Gary says, slowly, “I never thought of that.”

Paul glances at him briefly and smiles, rueful. “Gaz. You never do.”

Gary thinks, _Because you leaving Manchester is just unthinkable._ Paul frowns at him and Gary shrugs, not meaning to have sent that thought but not regretting it.

They don't talk about it anymore afterwards, although Gary still thinks about it, sometimes, not sure what it entailed.

 

-

 

He still looks for David on the pitch for months ( _for years)_ after David's gone and pulled on a white shirt instead of red, still stumbles in surprise at the closed door in his head and the emptiness that resounds when he says, _Becks._ It's both strange and familiar to talk to Paul, to settle in quietly with Paul, to think, _Scholesy,_ and know with certainty he'd never have to shut this door.

 

It's enough and not enough. He phones David all the time, the distance stretching out between them that Gary's glad he couldn't feel, when David goes from Madrid to Los Angeles ( _five thousand two hundred and eighty one miles_ ), to Paris ( _five hundred and eight_ ).

 

 

-

 

David visits, on occasion, the visits more frequent when he retires. They go one day to a familiar restaurant, just them.

It comes up out of nowhere, really, as it always did. Sidelining Gary with it's unexpected stinging, how all along they can talk and he'll break with just the way David's voice changes cadence. A pause in their conversation while David drinks his coffee and Gary looks out of the window, their knees knudging against each other under the table. David's looking at him, eyes soft. Gary's hand wavers on the saucer, the tea spilling over.

“I know,” he says, putting the cup down and reaching over. David's fingers latching on to his wrist.

“Gaz,” he says.

Gary looks down at their hands on the table, up at David's smile that made his eyes crinkle. David, who will never stay long enough now to have their bond rebuilt. He tries to say it, out loud, so that it would seem more real somehow, but David shakes his head. Gary looks at him, silent, everything continuing on around them heedlessly, the murmur of low conversation, the soft clatter of forks on plates-

And David hears him, though no one else does.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the line _Manchester is Heaven_ i paraphrased off Gaz's bio (the original was "Manchester became my heaven" i think???). I watched so many Old Trafford tour videos and none of it really made it into the fic. I'm going on a cleanse after this. 
> 
>  
> 
> thanks for reading <3 
> 
> (extra special sad for rach: i didnt think abt gaz leaving for valencia till the end.................sorry scholesy)


End file.
